


Ravishing

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Reads (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Crowley is a librarian and Aziraphale is an avid reader of bodice rippers. Aziraphale has very peculiar fears and Crowley's only fear is that Aziraphale wouldn't like him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indieninja92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/gifts), [Sani86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/gifts).



> Look, I'm a mess, I can't get over my writer's block, us velvet worms are said and confused. But we hope you'll have fun.

Rumour has it humans are the only animals who can blush, although, considering the way some animals see more colours than a human, including say, Van Gogh, might dream of, and some are colour blind, it might be that the world is always blushing, each creature in their own way, looking at humans. In short, everything blushes, and therefore deserves the most humane treatment. Books blush too, of course, bearing witness to the most infamous acts of human depravity in every sense of the word, including and especially the naughty ones. Such books blush most prettily. 

Anthony Crowley, a librarian in Bromley, knew his books well. However he'd probably kill any person who'd dare say so. He particularly liked fairy tales and could put any anthropologist to shame in no time, but truth be told, he quite enjoyed being _silently_ smug. Said quality made his smiles too knowing. 

Anthony Crowley, a librarian in Bromley, was staring at a pile of the trashiest, raunchiest bodice rippers the Central library had. He raised his eyes, covered with stylish sunglasses, and expected to see a middle-aged woman - and instead saw a middle-aged man, dressed as a fashion icon of the 1860s. The man had a halo of unruly pale curls and blue eyes. The man wasn't looking at Crowley or the books, apparently finding the children section display impossibly interesting. 

"Hmmm…" Crowley said. "May I look at your card, please?"

"I don't have one," the man replied quietly. He lowered his head, pouting. 

"Not a problem. Let's get you one." Crowley smiled - too knowingly. 

"Do you… do you need my real name?" The man finally looked at Crowley. Oh, he was pretty, he was so very lovely, round shoulders and gentle curves, kind and clever eyes, crow's feet, pink lips. 

"I could never miss a chance for a mischief, but I'm afraid, I do need your real name. Or you could buy me dinner and I'll take the books myself… but then you'll run away and I'll be fined and fired." Crowley giggled. 

The blue eyes turned sharper - and hurt, heartbreakingly so. "Don't you dare blackmail me, you… you demon!"

Crowley scoffed and adjusted his fringe to hide his discomfort. Albeit skinny and lean, he considered himself quite pleasant to look at, and the man couldn't be straight, no, no, no. 

"If I'm choosing to borrow some books for… for research, it doesn't mean I'm an easy prey!" The man continued.

"You're definitely a predator. I can't share your information with anyone. Finedp and fired, ok? So give me your ID and I'll get you sorted in no time. Can't keep you away from your research, right?" Crowley regained his footing. He let his sunglasses slide down his sharp nose and winked at the blue-eyed man. 

"Oh, coloboma!" The blue-eyed man said excitedly. "It looks so charming on you… I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

Crowley was a human, and he blushed. As a ginger, he blushed so hard one would have been forgiven for their desire to fry something over his burning ears. 

"So… Ngk… Enjoy your… research." Crowley said sternly, returning the ID to one Mr Aziraphale Zebulon Fell. " _The horse and its Master_ has a great description of felching…" Crowley finished his sentence to an empty space, since one Mr Aziraphale Zebulon Fell had fled.

"Right." Crowley said.

***

Mr Aziraphale Zebulon Fell kept returning and kept taking the most embarrassing, most ridiculous, most impossible raunchy novels. All of them featured a woman dressed as a boy. Crowley kindly suggested that Mr Fell should take a look at the queer literature section. Mr Fell smiled sadly. 

"I can't help thinking of a struggle the characters would go through in our world. Or in theirs. My fantasy does a good job all the same…" Mr Fell blushed scarlet and fled again.

Crowley was a good librarian. He read everything under the sun of the electric light. He made sure to sneak in a novel or two of very raunchy queer prose. 

It took Aziraphale two weeks to notice, and he was rabid. 

"I believe I've made myself clear! I don't want anything other than what I pick! I don't want to feel anything other than… what I need to feel for my research. You can't judge my taste! It's impeccable!"

"To be honest, _Her Loyal Slave_ says otherwise," Crowley replied dryly. He did his best, after all. Lived up to one of his mentors' high standards of community service. 

The next step should be getting this peculiar man out of his head. 

***

Crowley rented a nice Victorian house with his childhood friends. Bea was a policeperson. Bea was so awesome their house had protection at all hours. Hastur and Ligur worked… Actually, no one knew what those two did. Mostly, they had very loud sex under the pretext that any person who'd like to take Bea down, would think that their house was a brothel and would step aside in awe. They paid their share of rent accurately, so neither Bea nor Crowley argued. Hastur made a curry to die for, Ligur could whip up any leftovers into a killer meal, therefore there was no point in arguing or complaining. 

"Crowley, I can see that there's something on your mind!" Bea said.

"Yes, fuck, ride my cock! Ride me harder, baby!" Hastur yelled from upstairs. 

"Or someone," Bea amended. "I understand you can't bring them over, but I'm sure we can get it all under control."

"Yes, daddy, yes, I want to ride your big hard cock!" Ligur wailed. 

"Look, there's that guy, posh and Victorian - more Victorian than this house - and he doesn't live here in Bromley! He doesn't! He borrows the most embarrassing sexy novels, blushes, runs away… He has blue eyes."

"Alright," Bea concluded inconclusively. 

"Yeah… I wish. Anyway. There's that exhibition at the British museum next week. Wanna come with?"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, daddy, your cock is so hard!"

"Crowley, I can't go to a museum. I'm this close to being relocated - and I won't be relocated until I take those bastards down and make sure they rot in hell!" Bea landed their fist soundly on the table.

"Come on, baby, move your fucking hips!"

"Well… I can't look cool if I go to a museum. Alone."

"You'll make do, Crowley. No one knows you there and you're wearing your blessed sunglasses all the time."

"Daddy!!!!"

"My eyes!" Crowley explained and complained. 

"Yeah. I know. Want some new earplugs?"

"Yes, baby, yes, like that!!!"

"I'm alright. Got used to it, I guess." Crowley sullenly dipped his grilled cheese sandwich into green tahini. 

"You make great tahini," Bea suggested. 

"That's because I scare our coriander into obedience!" Crowley replied ardently. 

Their flowerbeds were arranged to make the rainbow flag, and Crowley was gentle with the flowers. The herb garden never got such lenient treatment, so their basil and oregano and rosemary and coriander were the most verdant, most intoxicating in Bromley, although the poor things trembled with fear when no wind could be felt. Crowley hissed and yelled at them. Bea and the porn stars upstairs approved wholeheartedly, while one of the more traditional families in the neighborhood tried to sue them for the plant abuse. Bea made the issue go away. They tried to make the family go away too, but Crowley taught the kids to play chess sometimes, so Bea had to take a step back. 

***

The point was…

_The point was..._

**_The point was…_ **

Crowley loved museums. He adored them. He enjoyed every blessed minute spent among the ancient artifacts. Crowley was hungry for knowledge, and he was a demon enough to care nothing about traditions or etiquette. After all, he had come to the exhibition because it was all about Crete. Crowley _loved_ Crete, loved the whole premise of an island developing gloriously all on its own… What was not to admire after all?

Crowley could never find someone to admire some ancient ruin next to him. Even Bea didn't want to come with, let alone Hastur and Ligur, what with all their loud and happy sex… Sometimes it was too much, Crowley had to admit. After all, he was lonely, and Bea had their job, but Hastur and Ligur only ever had each other. 

He tried to push such thoughts somewhere deep, somewhere far away from his endless questions about the Cretan civilization. They had flushable toilets, for fuck's sake! 

Crowley had taken a day off, a Wednesday at that, despite the fact that Aziraphale usually would come on Wednesdays… Crowley was smart enough to avoid paying too much attention to the things that deserved none of his attention… 

Anyhow, he enjoyed his Wednesday off, and Aziraphale could have found some properly naughty entertainment without Crowley's involvement, really. Crowley just walked and walked, enjoyed every little detail and wrote down every scientific paper he had come by or could have come by. 

Crowley loved all those ancient and lost civilizations that managed without a wheel or any other thing the white world considered necessary.

In short, Crowley was enjoying himself.

Suddenly he was grabbed by an elbow and pulled aside. 

"What are you doing here?" Mr Fell hissed. "Came this far to blackmail me? What is it you want?"

Crowley took in the countenance of his interrogator. Blue eyes, pink lips, round shoulders, that peculiar irresistible demeanour of someone who had to be courted and cherished. 

Crowley considered his words carefully, but still not carefully enough. 

"Just a dinner," Crowley replied. "Just one dinner. I'll even buy it. Even if it's the Ritz. Anything." Crowley promised it, Crowley had never broken a promise. 

"Alright. One dinner." Aziraphale let go of Crowley's collar and stepped back. "Nothing else."

"You're lying! I'm a fool, I'm a very gullible fool, but I know what you mean!" 

"Got me there. A few dinners."

"Why a few?" Aziraphale hissed.

"You're beautiful! I can't think of anything else to lure you in.” 

“What do you want?"

"A dinner," Crowley answered honestly. He wanted to be irresistible, unreachable, but he failed miserably, when those blue eyes were staring deep into his lonely soul, hungry for love, hungry for a companion.

"Then you'll leave me alone?" Aziraphale asked. 

"No. Can't promise it. You're too beautiful to be left alone!"

"Ah, Aziraphale! There you are! I've been looking for you!" A very cheery voice said.

Crowley looked aside to trace the source - it was Gabriel, a useless and far too privileged director of the British museum.

"I'm in charge of the restorations," Aziraphale quickly explained. "He hunts me… he can't know!" Aziraphale stepped back.

"Mr Gabriel!" Crowley greeted. "What an honour! I just wanted to take your incredibly talented employee out for a lunch!" Crowley smiled nuclearly. 

Even an old homophobe like Gabriel had nothing to say against that. 

"Oh… _Oh…_ That's amazing! Aziraphale… I mean Mr Fell… I mean professor Fell deserves a date, indeed!" Gabriel locked his hands together and tried to make his fake smile look more sincere. He still looked like an executioner wishing his latest victim a good evening. 

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hand and tugged him out as fast as he could. 

Aziraphale was too shocked to argue, so Crowley drove them to the Ritz quietly. 

"What an arse!" Crowley cursed.

"You can talk! You drive a vintage Bentley!" Aziraphale replied, visibly scandalised.

"No, the Bentley I inherited from my mother. Nothing to do with me!" Crowley raised his hands. 

The drive to the Ritz was short and quiet. Crowley decided that he'd work endless extra hours, he'd do anything, just to make that man smile… 

He let Aziraphale order for them both.

"I see you know your exquisite dining," Crowley teased. He knew of no other way to start a conversation, and he wasn't in the state to learn something new.

"Is this your way of saying I'm fat?" Aziraphale asked morosely.

"No! What the fuck! It's my way of saying that I admire your knowledge!" Crowley shoved some delicacy down his mouth. He didn't like the taste, but he quickly noticed that his companion - his incredibly beautiful and insecure companion - was quite a connoisseur of good food and fine wine, so he decided to remain quiet and just humm in agreement. 

Aziraphale's vigour faded quickly, though.

"Why… why do you do this? Is it the money? Why are you blackmailing me?" Aziraphale implored and Crowley gaped.

"Ok, look, I might have mistaken it all for some foreplay or something… What's… what's wrong?"

Crowley had never been particularly calm or calming, but the man sitting in front of him, so hot, so lonely, far too aware of every social convention, deserved to be calmed, so Crowley was doing his bloody best. 

"You came to blackmail me. To out me to everyone as a reader of bodice rippers, and I can't… it'll ruin me!" Aziraphale pushed his oysters around the plate with full, plump fingers. 

"Ok, ok… hold your horses… or whatever. Alright, so you think I came to the exhibition to trash talk about you?" Crowley looked at the snot inside one of _his_ oysters. Fuck it all, he must have eaten some of it, which made him immediately sick, especially considering what Aziraphale had just told him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but… no, I can't even say it!"

"But I can!" Aziraphale raised his eyes defiantly. "I'm old, fat, fussy, old-fashioned. It took me forever to come out as gay, but I can't be known to read trashy novels! I'm the classiest employee at the British museum. I have a reputation!"

Crowley dropped his jaw. "You look like an angel, Aziraphale. I can't get you out of my stupid head! Why… why would I torture you like you think I am? The only thing I want from you is nothing… no, lies. I want you to look my way, but you don't have to!"

Aziraphale shook his head. "My dear, you're very convincing. However, I wasn't born yesterday. Yes, I'm gay, and everyone knows that and Gabriel can't fire me. No one can. I'm the best." Aziraphale smiled like a bastard he secretly was. "But if they know I get off reading bodice rippers… The shame is too much. So tell me what you want. What do I need to get rid of you?"

Crowley wasn't aware he had a heart to break, but Aziraphale easily proved that Crowley did have a heart, and he broke it easily. 

"Nothing," Crowley replied cruelly. "There's nothing you need to do. I'll fuck off on my own."

The rest of the meal was spent in silence. Crowley ate nothing but watched Aziraphale eat. There was such pure happiness to Aziraphale when he was enjoying his food.

After the dinner Crowley walked Aziraphale back to his flat. 

"So… I hope you won't bother me again. Please!" Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hands. "My entire life depends on your discretion!"

"You have my discretion!" Crowley promised. "I wouldn't think of anything else! Would you like to… I mean… I had a lot of fun tonight and…"

"Good bye, my dear!" Aziraphale made haste to his door, leaving Crowley to ponder over every second of the evening. Aziraphale would have been honoured to discover that each thought in Crowley's head was dedicated to the way the Crete civilization corresponded to Aziraphale's fears and doubts (it absolutely didn't but in Crowley's mind everything was suddenly firmly connected to Aziraphale). 

Not that Crowley had many lovers, but he had read enough to know what was to be expected from an ideal lover. He couldn't have been such a bad companion, after all, now could he?

He walked into his house like a ghost. 

"That bad?" Bea asked.

"Yes, baby, yes, like that!"

"Bad enough. He thinks I'm using him to blackmail him!" 

"Terrible! You couldn't trick a toddler, Crowley!" Bea encouraged.

"Baby… oh yes, baby! Yes, harder, do it harder!"

"Well, he doesn't know it, does he?!"

"I don't know! I only know that you are fluffier than a toddler!" Bea proclaimed.

"Baby! Baby, you're so good!"

Bea calmly took out her gun and shot through the ceiling. The sounds grew quieter for about ten minutes.

"Hey, don't scare them!" Crowley yelled.

"Not scaring them! Just warning!" Bea pocketed their gun.

"You can't scare them! They are in love!" Crowley argued.

"No, they've been married for two years! That's not marriage, that's provocation!" Bea replied. 

Crowley refused to argue yet again. 

***

The first time Aziraphale saw Crowley he could only think _how beautiful, how beautiful, how hot, hot, hot_. That auburn hair, those damned sunglasses, tight black clothes, that worn out cardigan, the way cashmere touched that pale throat and held to those pale fragile wrists. And of course Aziraphale was holding a pile of steamy romances. 

Crowley was sassy, funny, calm even. Crowley provided the information about felching… As if Aziraphale had needed some other oral fixation! 

The second time he came to Bromley, Crowley was swaying his hips to Kylie Minogue - while rearranging the kids' section display. 

Crowley had everything on Aziraphale - his name, his job, his address, but Aziraphale was lonely, horny, full of affection no one was interested to accept from him. 

After the lunch at the Ritz - although the conversation had been about dinner - Aziraphale received a _message_. Crowley was abusing Aziraphale's privacy, of course. Aziraphale hadn't expected anything else, but the message said:

_It's all in your head, angel. There's nothing wrong with what you choose to read. You don't need to hide, but I'll never betray you. I can't believe I just said that. I hate to think you value yourself so little. You're pretty, angel, you're hot. I'd kill for another meal with you. I'd love to just sit there and watch you read. I know you don't believe me. Let me prove it, pretty angel, please. Crowley._

Aziraphale sighed. He checked his bank account. He had enough to retire and run away to Spain. Or even farther. He had to be discreet, though. He had to make everyone think he had it all planned for years.

He got somewhat lost in the thoughts of a small house somewhere in Galicia. Or he could accept that tempting offer from the Prado, after all, said offer being something traditional for both parties: they offered, Aziraphale rejected. 

Aziraphale took a bath, read a particularly delightful and delicious scene featuring a lot of alcohol, wet grass and very tender anal fisting. Who would have thought? 

With a sigh Aziraphale realised that he had to get back to Bromley at least to return the books… Every time he returned the books, he wanted to take some more. 

Crowley texted again. _Why don't we have breakfast? You know, like a blackmailer and a blackmailee? We could discuss the terms of our disagreement… ok, it's stupid, and our lunch was an exercise in silly sulking, but can I get another chance? Please?_

In all fairness, Crowley was very drunk when he wrote the message. He was drunk, he was a bit obnoxious, Bea was teasing him, Hastur and Ligur were loudly fucking. He had a lot of distractions.

_And I mean. I mean. I mean. I don't know what I mean. I think about you, a lot._

Aziraphale sighed. He glanced around his cozy cluttered flat, glanced - mentally - at his cozy cluttered life. He cast another - mental - glance at Crowley the librarian. He was hot… He had that subtle clumsiness about him. He was all sharp angles, preposterous movements, hips-hips-hips. 

Aziraphale chose to ignore Crowley and go on with his life, which, he was sure, was on the brink of collapsing on itself, miserably before Aziraphale accepted that annual offer from the Prado.

On Wednesday, per usual, Aziraphale brought the borrowed books back. Crowley was pale and fragile, oh that insufferably handsome man! Aziraphale was extremely, royally pissed at Crowley for being so fucking handsome. 

Crowley nodded and looked _sad._ Aziraphale knew sadness intimately, considered himself its best companion - but Crowley wore his sadness like a crown. Crowley's sadness screamed at Aziraphale that _he_ was the reason those gentle features, those sharp cheekbones were shadowed with melancholy and gloom. It would have been silly, but Crowley was too beautiful to be entirely silly.

On his part, Crowley raised his tired eyes behind awesomely sullen sunglasses and sighed. Aziraphale didn't like it one bit.

"I'm afraid you're not registered, Mr Fell," Crowley informed pointedly, and continued before Aziraphale could argue. "An unfortunate mistake in our system of course. Let me fix it."

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, like a stranded dorada with lemon and basil.

Crowley sullenly offered Aziraphale the new card. It belonged to Angel Ziggy Stardust, freelance blogger, registered in Bromley. 

Aziraphale impersonated a stranded dorada once again.

"My mates have very loud sex, but it's a good house and there's a place for you there, always," Crowley promised. He stood up and left his post before Aziraphale could say a word.

"Such… such a terrible, naughty boy," Aziraphale whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

Each new event is the result of countless previous events. Each new event begets countless other events. Aziraphale could have thought a lot of things, but he mostly thought that he couldn't afford another handsome librarian who knew Aziraphale's worst secret and still wanted to take him out for a… meal. 

Aziraphale brought his shameful borrowings back and stared at Crowley. It was a pleasant sight, to be sure. Crowley was staring into a book, perhaps his own shameful secret… One glance proved that Crowley was reading a book about Crete. He was so engrossed in it that he paid no attention to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale let out a very polite cough.

"Yeah, I know it's you." Crowley said dryly. He kept reading but his cheekbones (those cheekbones!) turned pink. "You know where to drop this… fluff and smut. Come back when you pick some more."

Crowley returned to Crete. He appeared to have a lot of fun there, for which Aziraphale couldn't blame him, although it made Aziraphale feel even worse than before. He wandered off in search of more guilty pleasures. 

"Have you ever considered the real thing?" Crowley suddenly asked. Aziraphale jumped up and turned around.

"You spooked me!" Aziraphale accused.

"Well, sorry, I guess?" Crowley shrugged. "So… how about the real thing?"

"You mean the Stoppard play?" Aziraphale asked hopefully.

"No, I mean dating and having quite a lot of sex." Crowley clarified. 

"I… I… I can't have sex. I'm… soft. And not pretty."

Crowley's jaw dropped with the same finality Robespierre's jaw did right before beheading (see, the famed radical tried to end his life, ended up wounding himself, and then… you don't want to know).

"I'm going to give you a mirror," Crowley promised and walked away.

Indeed but two days later Aziraphale received a huge mirror. The note attached to it read:

_ Objects in the mirror are even prettier than they appear. It all comes down to physics, really… _

A few pages of meticulous explanations of the physics of light and mirrors followed. Aziraphale couldn't make sense of any of those, but it was touching. Naughtily.

Besides, Crowley was playing with fire using Aziraphale's confidential information, deleted and forgotten (huh!), against Aziraphale, to harass him with antique mirrors and too detailed love letters that had nothing about sex and a lot about the dual nature of light. 

***

Crowley visioned himself a loyal servant of a noble prince. Of a noble horny prince. Of a horny bastard who didn't want to have another date with him.

Speaking of mirrors, Bea, Hastur and Ligur dragged Crowley to a mirror and came to a conclusion that Crowley was flawless, woke up like this, only an idiot would refuse a chance to date him. 

Crowley tried to explain that his crush was indeed an idiot, that was the whole reason behind falling for him.

"Two idiots," Ligur concluded calmly. "Perfect match. Even Grindr couldn't make it any better."

Of course Crowley rambled on about faulty algorithms but no one listened to him, although everyone agreed he was very smart while yawning over pizza. 

***

"My housemates told me I'm flawless!" Crowley said bravely when Aziraphale returned for his weekly portion of filth. Fluff. Smut. The usual. Barperson! Over here! Two fingers of bad whiskey, please! Thank you.

"Well… good for… you?" Aziraphale suggested. Crowley was indecently flawless, all sharp and angular and mysterious and with an information kink. Thesaurus kink. Encyclopedia kink. In short, Crowley could have dated Diderot, but apparently had no chances with Aziraphale. 

"It's good for me." Crowley agreed and leaned over seductively. "Could be good for you too." He took off his sunglasses and awkwardly winked at Aziraphale. 

Oh, Aziraphale was too old for this shit. That pretty twink with an awkward wink seemed to have been born out of Aziraphale's filthiest and fluffiest fantasies. That wouldn't do. 

"Have a fucking dinner with me!" Crowley begged. "I mean… you're pretty, you're funny, although you have no idea… fuck, Aziraphale, angel, have dinner with me!" Crowley whined. Shamelessly. "I can't get you out of my head! Have mercy! Show me… I don't know… how unworthy of you I am. How unworthy of me you are. Anything. Just one fucking blessed dinner!"

Aziraphale would have never accepted any accusations of being heartless. He was a noble, sensitive soul. 

"Alright. One dinner."

"You said so last time!" Crowley replied with a smirk. A hellish twink with an awkward wink and a devilish smirk. 

"Don't… don't!" Aziraphale warned vaguely, but with a threatening index finger in the air. It was as threatening as double frosting on a sugary muffin, but Crowley obligingly pretended to be scared shitless. Aziraphale felt brave. 

"My place, tomorrow at seven, bring wine. Red, dry, French, decent." And Aziraphale walked away. He had never felt so sexy and hot. He had a bag full of nasty novels and a date. A win, a complete win. 

***

Aziraphale had made a decision.  _ A decision.  _ He was determined to make the date as terrible as possible. 

However Aziraphale was a gourmand, so the pizza was exquisite and the candles were beautiful, and…

Aziraphale opened the door to greet his terrible date only to see his loyal librarian, black clothes, red hair, sunglasses, green carnations… 

"You seem to be Oscar Wilde's groupie." Crowley shoved the flowers into Aziraphale's hands. 

Then shoved a bottle of more than tolerable Pinot Noir (Burgundy) into Aziraphale's hands as well. 

And Aziraphale, he was only human, he wanted to hold that handsome stick and never let go. 

Aziraphale tried to be terrible all the same. He dove into the details of the restoration of old manuscripts, but Crowley was enthralled. 

Aziraphale thought of his more obnoxious interests. 

Damn it, Crowley kept listening to him, sipping his wine absent-mindedly, munching at the pizza without really tasting how remarkably goat's cheese complimented cranberries and arugula. Aziraphale spoke of his undying love for crepes. Of his passion for the books of prophecies. That one was a gem, in Aziraphale's opinion, since none of his dates survived, pardon, stayed through Aziraphale's lectures on the books of prophecies. 

Crowley, the bastard, the devil, the demon, the most beautiful creature to have walked the earth, listened to Aziraphale as if Aziraphale had been talking about the cure for cancer. 

Aziraphale was easily carried away, so he kept talking until he noticed that Crowley was furiously typing on his phone. 

Aziraphale felt hurt and triumphant. Crowley lifted his head and glanced away guiltily.

"I'm sorry, angel, I was using your speech to compose an email to my boss. I think we need more books of prophecies in the library. It's a rather curious precursor to the chaos theory, and…"

Aziraphale gave up and kissed Crowley. He thought it wouldn't hurt… but it did, but in the best way. Crowley's lips were soft and delightfully lousy, as if that perfect stick had never kissed anyone before. Then Crowley moaned into Aziraphale's mouth. And cupped Aziraphale's face. And kissed down Aziraphale's neck, whispering that Aziraphale should keep talking, because it was so interesting, so wonderful, and that Aziraphale tasted so good.

Aziraphale decided he'd lose his jacket and get rid of his bowtie. And a waistcoat. And a shirt. It couldn't hurt…

Crowley landed on Aziraphale, pushing him into the floor and covering him in frantic kisses like a drunk baker would their chocolate cake with chocolate.

"So soft… so beautiful… how come you're single…"

Aziraphale found a perfect time to be sassy. 

"Who said I'm single?"

"My bad!" Crowley kissed Aziraphale's lips. "You're not single. You're mine… you're mine." Crowley growled possessively. 

Aziraphale made an effort to roll his eyes in exasperation but instead he rolled his eyes in pleasure, in the overwhelming feeling of being fiercely wanted, desired, longed for. 

Oh, Crowley would be gone by the morning. By midnight. 

When the morning came, Aziraphale felt careful and lovely kisses all over his back and shoulders. Aziraphale was pleasantly sore. 

"Won't you be late, angel, my darling?"

Aziraphale moaned. "How come you're still here!? I did everything to chase you away… Oh…" Aziraphale's thoughts were lost to posterity because Crowley had him in his mouth and growled around Aziraphale's cock like a hungry wolf which sounded a lot like one of those romances Aziraphale borrowed from Crowley's library. 

But Crowley wasn't an indulgence, however Aziraphale tried to convince himself otherwise. Crowley was gentle and fragile, and yet Crowley offered his heart on a silver platter.

As if it had been nothing.

And Aziraphale knew that Crowley's heart was beautiful - at least according to everything its owner had done the night before - and it was loyal and steadfast - because Aziraphale hoped so, despite his better, nay, allegedly better judgement. 

He kissed Crowley again.

And again.

And again.

There was no breath left between the pair of them, they fit so well, they loved peculiar books, fancy pizza, good wine and each other's company. 

"Please, angel… can I see you again?" Crowley begged.

Aziraphale cursed his better judgement. His better judgement had nothing against those pale brown eyes, almost yellow, each pupil slit by coloboma, each movement met with a matching one. 

After all, why not? Aziraphale wanted another disastrous date to end up with Crowley in his bed, breathing heavily, seeking Aziraphale's touch, thrusting slowly and lovingly… 

_ Lovingly _

If each event was a child and a predecessor of every other event, then Aziraphale wouldn't argue. All roads led to Rome, all paths led him to losing Crowley… But Crowley didn't disappear, the traitor! He texted daily, waxed poetic about Aziraphale's mind, wit, body, soul… Aziraphale felt naked at work, and he… he enjoyed it. 

***

Most of their dates were spent naked. Aziraphale, being the true admirer of finer things in life, liked his extraordinary librarian naked, blushing, flushed pink, struggling for breath… oh you name it. 

See, Aziraphale had indeed been conducting a research, and so he knew how to incorporate every unrealistic scenario into  _ the real life _ .

The only problem was, damn it, that Crowley was so awfully clever. 

So very clever indeed that even lying there, covered in come and oil and lube and spit, he dared say one delightful evening (they had crepes!) when Aziraphale dropped next to him on the bed, exhausted:

"See, that's what I meant. The real thing. The warmth, the heat, the tenderness…" Crowley punctuated each point with a gentle kiss here and there and eventually everywhere. 

"We… it's impossible for us to be… anything!" Aziraphale insisted. In his defense, he knew he was being an idiot, but… but… but Crowley's lips on his shoulders felt far too good. Crowley's gangly arms around his shoulders felt too good. Crowley's frantic whispers when Aziraphale took him apart so well there had been no words good enough to describe it in any way apart from the generic  _ took him apart _ , were too good. 

Crowley perhaps called him an angel, but Aziraphale wasn't an optimist. He was a realist. In fact he was a full-of-shit pessimist, but that fact remained to be discovered at a later date. Whatever. 

"I… aren't we… something?" Crowley asked desperately. 

Aziraphale had to be the grown-up in the room. 

"This is silly, Crowley. We can't be together. Stay together. Get married. What am I saying, you wouldn't want any of it!" Aziraphale laughed insincerely. 

Crowley was up and getting dressed the very next moment.

"I like your sorry, stupid, obnoxious arse! I might be in love with you!!! And you decide you know better, right? You decide for me! You dare decide for me!"

Crowley, admittedly, was a bit love-drunk. 

"I'm all about the freedom of choice. I might as well have been the original tempter. And you… and you… and you…"

***

That evening Bea gave Crowley their gun and Crowley made a lot of holes in many walls and a couple of ceilings. He dutifully fixed it all the next day which ruined the aesthetic a little bit, but Bea knew a broken heart when they saw one. Not that they had seen many. Yet, you see, Crowley had a big old heart and some pompous ass broke it. 

Bea took their gun and their car and a few of their bodyguards, or whatever they were called. 

All this assembly of metaphorical horses and literal men drove over to the British museum and scared the living shit out of Gabriel, which was just karma. 

They proceeded to scare the living and dead shit out of Aziraphale, which was just karma as well, but differently. 

Bea sat on an ancient throne and lit a cigarette. They had been hunting down mafia for long enough to get some ideas. Incidentally they loved  _ The Godfather _ just as well. 

"I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse. I mean, you can. But you shouldn't. Crowley would have given you a lecture about the philosophical aspects of modal verbs, but you don't deserve it. My dearest boy, my perfect housemate is brokenhearted. You'd better do something. I can burn shit. I'm a cop. I can't burn shit. But I wish I could. Get your shit together."

Bea wanted to put their cigarette down into an ancient manuscript but couldn't make themself do such a barbaric thing. They left.

Aziraphale…

See, Aziraphale was very quantum. Ineffable, that is. He didn't quite understand what had been asked of him. 

So he did nothing and considered himself a wise man.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale was staring down at a bowl of chicken soup. The golden surface stared up at Aziraphale judgmentally, which wasn't exactly what one would expect of soup, but lately everything had been staring at Aziraphale that way, including his beloved manuscripts, anything resembling a mirror, his meals, his drinks, all of the bloody creation looked at Aziraphale as if he had destroyed the most beautiful thing he could have ever wished for. 

Aziraphale sighed at the soup. 

"I'm getting old," Aziraphale confessed to the soup. He could swear it nodded. "I'm getting old and I've been lonely for my entire life." The soup winced in sympathy. "Could I be blamed for being cautious…" Aziraphale clenched his fists on both sides of the bowl. "Could I be forgiven for distrusting someone as young and beautiful as Crowley? I… I was an arse. I see him everywhere. I miss him terribly. I miss him…"

He closed his eyes to avoid the soup's judgement. Behind his eyelids Crowley had taken a permanent residence… He felt cozy there, Aziraphale had to give him that. He was smiling there. He was kissing Aziraphale and he was laughing into the kiss. He was holding Aziraphale's hand when there was no need for it. He moaned and tossed and tenderly asked for more, and the ghosts of his touches haunted Aziraphale's skin like the most stubborn ghosts. 

It was a Wednesday after all. Aziraphale gathered the naughty novels and left his flat. 

***

He found Crowley shelving the entirely new section of the books of prophecies. He did it carefully and gently, with a frown on that brow of his Aziraphale had kissed and missed so much… 

"My dear?" Aziraphale called carefully.

Crowley looked up and dropped the book he was holding. "Angel… I'm sorry… about… about Bea. I swear, I…"

Aziraphale laughed. "My dear boy, it hasn't even crossed my mind, but…" He walked closer to Crowley. "I'm… it has nothing to do with Bea, dearest. I…"

Aziraphale bit his lip. 

"I missed you," Crowley confessed, returning to the shelving. "I shouldn't have stormed out. You've… we've never… never discussed anything. Just… rolled with it. And… and it's wrong. On the other hand…" Crowley turned to Aziraphale again, a shy and sly smile on his lips. "Couldn't have asked you for what I wanted on the first date, could I?"

"You… are these…" Aziraphale, per usual, chose to change the subject.

"Of course. I'm listening, you know." Crowley kept shelving. He had long limbs and long fingers, he was both sharp and gentle. Aziraphale was looking at him - and looking - and looking. 

"I know, dearest. Remember… remember that story by O'Henry where an older grumpy man falls for a young girl and makes a fool of himself courting her?"

Crowley smiled at his work and nodded. Aziraphale noticed that the poor dear's hands were trembling. Just like they did when they touched Aziraphale. 

"Yes, I do." Crowley said, quite unnecessarily. 

"So… I think I'm that old arsehole. You showed me nothing but kindness and care… and I… I couldn't refuse or indulge you… no, it comes out wrong." Aziraphale covered his eyes for a moment. "What I mean to say… is… I miss… us. I want to be us, again. If you'll have me."

***

Crowley dragged Aziraphale to the queer literature section and introduced him to the joys of fanfiction. Before long Aziraphale was writing his own, so incredibly wonderful and filthy, it never failed to make Crowley look like a boiled beetroot. Aziraphale insisted on meeting Crowley's flatmates, and never flinched at Bea reassembling her gun in front of him more times than was needed. He didn't flinch at Hastur and Ligur's triumphant performances either, to Bea's surprise and Crowley's delight. 

"So… This… is ok with you?" Bea asked. They didn't sound convinced, as they pointed their gun to the ceiling. 

"Why shouldn't it be?" Aziraphale said innocently. "If everything goes well, then Crowley won't stay here long, will you, darling?"

"He won't," Bea decided for their friend. 

***

Crowley kept working in Bromley, and every morning Aziraphale made him breakfast and took care of his lunchbox. 

"You're so skinny, my love, you should eat better," he would coo. Crowley would melt in his arms. 

Every evening they came back home, their home. Crowley cooked dinner. They argued about food and drinks and jobs and news and every good and bad thing under the sun. Crowley would always let Aziraphale win those fights, while Aziraphale made sure Crowley knew that Aziraphale never meant to win. 

It was good, all of it. Gabriel never dared pester Aziraphale about anything, because any time he tried to, Crowley would show up, smug, cool, handsome and smitten. He'd snog Aziraphale in front of everyone and take him home. Their home. 

The point of each story is to arrive at the level where it doesn't need to be told because nothing actually happens. As far as Aziraphale was concerned he had always wanted to remain untold, which is, happy and uneventful, if by event one means something that is radical, revolutionary. For him, accepting his own right to be happy and his divine duty to make Crowley happy was revolutionary indeed. 

And Crowley slept there, in Aziraphale's arms, every night. Who'd dare tell a story when Aziraphale was keeping the world quiet so that Crowley could sleep?

**Author's Note:**

> If you want us worms to keep writing, drop us a comment, please.


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